


sold!

by gsparkle



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charity Auctions, Diners, F/M, Museums
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/pseuds/gsparkle
Summary: Clint has one job: show up at the charity auction and save Kate from being bought by a serial killer. Only, Lucky ate another sock, so he's late, and, well, how was he supposed to know it wasn't Kate's turn?





	sold!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kiss_me_cassie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_me_cassie/gifts).



> When **kiss_me_cassie** prompted me with "you bought me at a charity auction and you're probably a serial killer," I immediately thought of the "Charity Drive" episode of _Arrested Development,_ in which Buster (he of my icon, if you're not familiar) rushes in and bids $10,000 on the wrong woman named Lucille. Hence, this. Thank you to santiagoinbflat, a Jedi and a scholar  <3

He’s late. Real late. _Barton, I’m going to fucking kill you_ late. The invite said 6, but it’s 6:58 now and Clint’s just rolling out of his taxi, fumbling with his bow tie. “Don’t you want your card back?” the taxi driver calls, but Clint flubs the grab and his Visa clatters to the street.

“Aw, fuck.” He drops to his knees, scraping dust onto the knees of his tux while he searches blindly under the car and managing to catch the back of his head on the side mirror when he attempts to straighten up. The cracked screen of his watch reads 7:01. _“Fuck.”_ The doorman doesn’t look particularly impressed, and Clint can’t blame him: the open taxi windows have whipped his hair out of order, his jacket’s hanging askew, and he _knows_ his socks don’t match.

“The charity auction? C’mon man, I’m super late,” he adds when the guy hesitates.

“Indeed,” sniffs the doorman, but he points the way and Clint sprints, his breath echoing off the solid wood-paneled walls. The St. Regis Hotel is a historic building, lavish and elegant and everything that makes his palms sweat. He ignores the tinkling crystal chandeliers whispering _you don’t belong here_ and focuses on the instructions Kate gave him: _Regis Roof ballroom, wait until they call my name, bid up to $10,000 so I don’t get bought by a serial killer._

Of course, Clint’s logic that one who doesn’t wish to be bought by a serial killer _maybe_ shouldn’t participate in a charity auction had been brushed aside. His further point that the whole idea of a charity auction is honestly weird and awkward in this day and age had also been summarily dismissed, so he’d shut up. Evidently, this was one of those things, like designer clothing and oxygen bars, that he’d never understand about the rich. “Just be there, Clint,” she’d sighed, and the event’s already started, but he’s here, tumbling out of the elevator, brandishing his invitation at the skeptical clerk at the registration table just outside the ballroom doors.

“Perhaps you’d like to, er, clean up before joining the reception?” she asks once his credentials have been thoroughly inspected. The gold-plated mirror behind her explains her question: he’s red with exertion, sweat just beading at his temples, and _god,_ he’d forgotten just how old this tux is. _You’re already late,_ he reasons to himself. _What’s one more minute?_

“Yeah, that’s probably a good idea,” Clint admits. “Could you, uh, point me the right way?” The woman motions back towards the elevators, but her directions aren’t loud enough to compete with the applause from the ballroom, which roars against his hearing aids; and then, through all the static and noise, he hears one syllable: _SH,_ as in _BiSHop,_ as in _Barton, I’m going to fucking kill you._

“I have to go,” he blurts, “I have to go _right now.”_ Already, he can hear people murmuring. Snatching up his auction number from the table, Clint scrambles past the reception table and into the room. There’s no time to appreciate the subtle themes of lavender and gold that tie the ballroom together, nor opportunity to scope out the view of the city; there’s only his voice, desperate to be heard over the din, yelling, “Ten--I bid ten thousand dollars!”

\-----

Natasha hates charity auctions in general; this one is made even worse by the fact that she’s just lost her job as principal dancer for the HYDRA Ballet company, and everyone in the room is sharing this fact with their neighbor as she rises from her seat and steps to the front of the stage. “A date with Natasha Romanoff,” the auctioneer reads from his card. “Principal ballerina of--er, that is--” A discreet cough, a glance at the tittering crowd. “Bidding will begin at one thousand dollars.”

She doesn’t expect anyone to bid on her, and nobody does, despite the auctioneer’s incessant encouragement. Her crime--secretly recording the sexual harassment and discriminatory hiring practices of HYDRA’s director, Alexander Pierce, and handing the footage over to _The Daily Bugle_ to bolster their already scathing expose on the popular and charming philanthropist--has made her unpopular in these circles, where someone’s wealth and status is enough reason to overlook their significant flaws. The story’s only broken two days ago, too late for Natasha to pull out of the auction; besides, she takes a savage sort of pleasure in the discomfort of the room, staring down all the cowards who’ll donate to the ACLU but won’t risk their own popularity by publicly disavowing Pierce.

“Come now,” chides the auctioneer, embarrassment for Natasha’s predicament brimming over his even voice. “This is for charity, everyone, and the lovely Natasha has a wonderful evening planned--”

He is interrupted by a commotion that erupts in the ballroom entrance. The doors are thrust open, and although she’s at the very front of the stage, all Natasha can see is an auction number waving wildly. The disruption throws a hush over the rest of the room, ensuring that everyone hears the latecomer bellow, “ _Ten thousand dollars!_ ” as he charges toward the stage.

Amid the resultant explosion of sound, three things happen. First, the auctioneer yells, “Sold!” and bangs his gavel with gleeful enthusiasm. “Ten thousand dollars for an evening with Natasha Romanoff, sold to the representative from Bishop Industries!” Second, Kate Bishop, a fellow auctionee and heiress to the aforementioned Bishop Industries fortune, sighs something that sounds very much like “god _fucking_ damn it” in weary exasperation. And third, Natasha’s unlikely hero reaches the stage, looks up at her with the bluest, clearest eyes she’s ever seen, and says, “Oh, _fuck._ ”

Well. “As far as pickup lines go,” Natasha tells him as she’s handed off the stage, “I’ve heard worse.” Face to face, her apparent date for the evening has tousled blond hair, a lopsided smile, and a splash of freckles across his once-broken nose. There’s an intriguing play of musculature happening under the seams of his threadbare tuxedo jacket, a flush climbing his tanned neck, and a nearly invisible wire that disappears over the helix of his ear. As far as potential serial killers go, he’s not… _not_ attractive.

“Oh god,” he says, dragging a hand over his face. “Katie’s gonna _kill_ me. Like, actually, literally, murder me.”

Natasha catches the poisonous glare Kate Bishop is throwing in his direction and has to admit that his chances of survival don’t look promising. “You could just go home instead,” she offers, although privately she struggles to see how this scruffy goofball wearing high tops with his tuxedo matches up with the sleek young woman currently stepping up to the auction block. She’s too young for him, for starters, and seems way more put-together; really, the only thing about them that matches is the royal purple of her dresses that could’ve been dyed to duplicate the color of his sneakers. “I mean, I can’t get your money back, but at least you could make it up to her.”

“Katie?” Her date laughs and screws up his face (somewhat adorably). “No way, she’s like my sister; I’m just here to prevent her from being bought by a serial killer--I mean, that’s what I was supposed to do. Like, you’re very beautiful, but I don’t think you can save me--” Those blue eyes flare in panic as he realizes what he’s said and the flush wipes his whole face pink. In truth, Natasha’s blushing a bit herself. “Um, that is--”

She’s spared having to right the conversational ship by the next date auction. An evening learning archery with Kate Bishop is far more popular than an evening doing anything with Natasha Romanoff, and the auctioneer can barely keep up with the flying bidding numbers. The most persistent bidder, and ultimate winner, is the current sweetheart of the US Olympic team: America Chavez, women’s middleweight boxing gold medalist. “Sold to Miss America Chavez!” the auctioneer crows, clearly enjoying the most dramatic event of his career. The poise Kate exhibited at the beginning of her auction is gone, replaced by a deep pink blush and a starry-eyed inability to take her eyes off America as she’s handed off the stage. “H-hi,” she stammers, “I’m Kather--um, Katie, um, Kate,” and it’s a miracle in her lovestruck state that she doesn’t trip over her own two feet. The crowd buzzes at the slow, appreciative grin that spreads across America’s face, and buzzes even louder when the two hook elbows and stroll from the room, immediately thick as thieves.

And now, Natasha realizes, she’s back where she started: about to go on a date with a cute-but-potentially-murderous guy who still hasn’t told her his name. “So,” she says, cringingly awkward and unsure. “I guess your execution is delayed, then?”

“Huh?” Her date jerks his attention away from Kate’s retreating back. “Oh, yeah. True.” There’s a pause in which he stares at her, and Natasha stares back, totally at a loss. She’s just about to suggest that they go their separate ways and forget this whole auction mishap ever happened when he sticks a hand out. “Sorry, I’m Clint, by the way. Um, what was your name? Also,” and he leans close to whisper, “Can we leave before Mr. Bishop finds out what I did?” His sheepish smile shouldn’t work on her, but oh, it really does. “He scares me.”

“I’m Natasha,” she tells him, bending his elbow until her hand fits just right. “Let’s get out of here.”

\-----

Kate calls Clint an idiot so often that it’s practically his name at this point, and the reason he knows she’s right is that only an idiot (he assumes) would, upon meeting the most beautiful woman literally ever, immediately reveal his childish fear of his best friend’s perfectly normal father. He contemplates saying something suave like, _I was just kidding about Mr. Bishop, we play snooker and drink brandy all the time,_ but Natasha strikes him as the perceptive type and anyway, he doesn’t totally know what either of those things are.

“You look familiar,” he opts to say instead, which is inane but at least isn’t a lie. Everything about Natasha’s look is memorable--the way the midnight of her dress contrasts the pale of her skin, the startling green of her eyes, the pile of hair curling redder than Christmas ribbons--and yet he can’t help feeling like his memory’s failed him, somehow, that he should know exactly who she is.

Her fuschia lips twist into an _I get that all the time_ type of smirk. “Been in Times Square lately?” she asks, patiently amused, and it comes to him: the eight story banner for HYDRA Ballet, with a ballerina standing in for the Y. In the picture, she’s in profile, the muscles of her legs stretched taut below and behind her even as her eyes follow her arm that extends skyward. Clint remembers studying the strength of every precise angle, even her nose. He remembers feeling hopelessly clunky in comparison.

Many things now make sense: how she moves like a swan in flight. Why she speaks to their limo driver in perfect Russian. The fact that they’re going to the opening night of a new art gallery at the Met.

“Right,” he says aloud. “Well, you look better in person,” he says, because--well, okay, he doesn’t really know why. _Because she’s beautiful and you’ve never known what to say to beautiful people._ “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”

Against all odds, Natasha smiles. “I think so, too,” she confides, as if it’s some sort of trade secret, as if nobody realizes that her kind of lightning can’t be bottled or printed. The red lights of Madison Avenue slant across her cheekbones as she adds, “Anyway, it doesn’t matter: the ad’s going down tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Clint says, oddly disappointed even though he’s only seen the banner once because he avoids Times Square unless absolutely necessary. He definitely, one hundred percent hadn’t been thinking about going back. “Why?”

The red lights shift to green and slide over the skeptical frown Natasha’s delicate brow folds into. “I don’t work there anymore?” she asks, as if he should know. _Should_ he know? He feels _oh_ and _why?_ coming back up his throat like a ten second deja vu cycle, but is saved by their arrival at the Met. Natasha looks like a goddess as she climbs the stairs, her ink blue dress rippling behind her like a cloak of midnight sky. Standing next to her, Clint feels the short hem of his pants, senses just how close his jacket is to busting a seam. If he’d known that he’d be doing this instead of spending the evening shooting with Kate, he would’ve taken up her offer for a new tuxedo; he’s out of place against the Met’s soaring arches and solemn statuary.

Fortunately, everyone else at this gallery opening is too busy staring at Natasha, and then whispering to their companions, to even notice Clint. It’s only when the whispers follow them to the open bar that he grows suspicious. “Is it just me, or is everyone whispering, like, a _lot_ more than normal?”

“Oh.” Her shrug is a work of art, a song too graceful for his clumsy fingers to ever pull from his guitar. “I got fired for exposing my boss’ sexual harassment scheme. Everyone’s mad at me.” Serenely, she hands Clint his whiskey and leads him down the main hall. “So, would you like to start with the new modernist exhibit, or do you prefer the Egyptian art?”

He nearly trips over the train of her gown. “Sorry--mad at _you?_ For _what?_ ”

She shoots him a _duh_ sort of eyebrow raise over the rim of her champagne flute. “Nobody likes a whistleblower,” she says patiently, as if he’s very young. “Now I’ve ruined Alexander Pierce’s _promising career,_ or something, instead of just keeping my mouth shut.” She pauses, as if that settles anything, and then goes on, “Okay, well if you don’t have an opinion, we’re going to the modernists; they’ve got a new Pavel Filonov I’ve been _dying_ to see.”

Five minutes later, they’re standing together in front of the Filonov, in which Clint sees exactly jack shit. In fairness, his mind is far more occupied with Natasha’s situation than _Flowers of the Universal Flowering._ “You’re awfully cavalier about losing your job,” he says at last, unable to keep his confusion in any longer. “Especially considering that you were doing the right thing.”

“Hm?” Unlike Clint, Natasha has found enough meaning in the painting that it takes her a moment to drag her eyes away. “Oh. Well, I wanted a vacation anyway,” she says, somewhat flippant; but she adds, almost to herself, “Besides, it’s better to speak up for the good of others than to stay silent and let bad things keep happening.”

 _Better,_ sure, but she makes it sound like an easy decision, while Clint knows he would have wrestled with the personal implications for days, maybe weeks. Natasha leans forward so that the painting’s spotlight lends a golden halo to her scarlet hair, and Clint thinks maybe she’s just made of finer stuff than he is.

Her interests are finer, that’s for sure: the farther into the museum they get, the more she animated she becomes, talking about this point of view and that brush stroke while Clint desperately tries to recall anything from the art history class he only took because he had a crush on Steve, the TA. And unlike that art history class, Natasha is full of interesting facts and fascinating dance connections and disarmingly inappropriate commentary. “Check out the ass on that guy,” she whispers, as if it’s not a statue by, like, _Michelangelo_ , and startles such a shouting laugh out of Clint that he can _hear_ the docent frowning even before he starts in their direction.

“We gotta get out of here,” he chokes out, still laughing as they skitter around a corner. “I know this great diner in Bed-Stuy, wanna come with?”

Natasha looks at her hands--which he drops as soon as he realizes they’re in his--and the brilliance of her smile could guide a million ships to safety. “Absolutely,” she says, and retakes his hand in hers.

\-----

And, okay, yeah, she probably should have gotten a last name before, you know, going with him to a second location; but she _does_ know muay thai and anyway, she sort of trusts this funny, unassuming little guy (not that he’s little--his shoulder brushed against hers more than once at the Met and god _damn_ is he jacked). Plus, the diner’s in a neutral location and her friend Maria’s just over in Brooklyn Heights.

Still. “Am I ever going to get your last name?” she asks as their fancy clothing slides like butter over the red vinyl of the diner seats.

“Oh!” Clint brightens, digs in his pocket, and produces a wrinkled business card. “It’s Barton--here, send a picture of that to your friend; you know, for safety, or whatever.” _Clint Barton,_ reads the card, _Master Carpenter, SHIELD Academy for the Arts._ “I mean, and I don’t need it back, right, that’s the point of business cards?”

Natasha bites back a smile and snaps the photo to Maria. “Are you just trying to give me your number?” she teases, and his ears turn pink.

“No, I--ooh, coffee, please,” he says, nearly diving for the passing waitress. “And a slice of that cherry pie up in the case.” Natasha suspects that this woman isn’t even supposed to be their waitress, but it’s impossible to turn down that exuberant smile or those overly blue eyes. He was probably a heartbreaker as a kid; he’s probably a heartbreaker, still.

“So, carpentry,” Natasha redirects once she’s ordered her own slice of pie. “What’s that like?”

Clint shrugs and she can’t help but stare at the glide of muscles under his jacket. With this minor provocation, her mind provides a fantastical imagination of Clint in one of those flannel shirts hypothetical carpenters probably love, sleeves rolled up to the elbows to reveal muscular forearms. In her head, his bright gaze scans a stack of wood (or something; her knowledge of carpentry is, admittedly, limited) with lasered focus, and when he reaches for the pencil wedged behind his ear, his shirt rides up _just_ enough to reveal a stripe of tanned skin. _Oh, and maybe that shirt should lose a button. Or two. Or vanish completely?_

“--So anyway, yeah, it’s fun,” Clint says, and Natasha realizes that she hasn’t heard a single word. _Fuck._ “Can I ask _you_ a question? Why did you sign up for a charity auction? Or, like, not pull out of it? Those things are _insane._ ”

“Giving back is important,” she says, which is true, but something makes her add, with a fierce and surprising sort of honesty, “And I wanted to make people feel bad for not supporting me.” She studies him over their newly arrived coffee and pie. “Can I ask you another question? How did you end up becoming best friends with a Fifth Avenue heiress? You don’t seem the type, no offense.”

She likes his laugh: it’s rich and deep and always so genuinely pleased. “None taken. You wouldn’t know it from looking at her, but Katie’s a killer archer. I shoot at the range in Boerum Hill and she walked up to me one day like, ‘I bet you a thousand bucks I can go shot for shot with you,’ which is insane because--and I’m just being honest here--I’m really fucking good. Anyway, she made 19 out of 20, got pissed, took me out for a beer to argue for a redo, and we’ve been best friends ever since.”

 _Archery._ At this point, Natasha’s certain that he can’t miss the way she’s staring at his arms, but look, she’s only human. In fact, she’s half sure that glint in his eye is flirtation, especially when he then proceeds to shrug out of his jacket with unnecessarily languid movements, but all he says is, “Okay, so let me ask you this: what’s the absolute worst part about dancing?”

It feels like they sit there for hours, trading questions over cup after cup of coffee. Clint, she learns, is partially deaf and fluent in sign language; has a one-eyed dog named Lucky, whose consumption of “yet another” sock was the cause for Clint’s late arrival to the auction; has had the same guitar, named Barbara, since he was seventeen years old; and spent a good portion of his childhood performing in a traveling circus. He’s witty and well-read, charming and cheerful, and he’s so entirely likeable that Natasha can’t help but laugh and answer the increasingly silly questions he throws her direction. Somehow, she admits to being a Scorpio, and to reading her horoscope with something that borders on religiousness; to her childhood dream of becoming a spy, a patently ridiculous idea considering the beacon-brightness of her hair; and, possibly worst of all, to harboring a long-lasting love of any and all disco music.

“You like ABBA? I _love_ ABBA!” By now, they’re the last ones in the diner, and Clint’s outburst brings all the waitstaff to glare them out of the restaurant. “Hey, I got another question for you,” he says as they amble aimlessly down the block, laughing. His hand has found hers, somehow, warm and sure as the smile on his face. “Would you, maybe, I dunno--would you ever want to go to the Met with me again? I got sort of,”--he stops short and his eyes, _god,_ she’s never seen flames so blue--“ _distracted,_ but I liked listening to you talk about art. It was fun.”

It’s just past midnight in Bed-Stuy, but every cell of Natasha’s body is awake and shining. “I think that would be nice,” she says slowly. In the fluorescent orange streetlight, Natasha trails a careful hand up Clint’s arm and shoulder until it rests upon his neck. “Here’s a question,” she breathes. “When are you going to kiss me?”

One strong arm comes around her back, pulling her close to his chest. “Oh,” he says, “Right now?” Even with that warning, she’s not prepared for the warmth that spills into her veins when his lips meet hers, flushing the most intoxicating blend of lust and euphoria singing through her body. Kissing Clint feels like laughter. Kissing Clint feels like _dancing._

“Get a room!” someone yells from the nearby bodega, startling Natasha into realizing just how long they’ve been standing there. Clint scowls in his direction and Bodega Guy says, “Oh, hey! Hawkguy! Never mind, carry on.”

“Weird,” Clint comments. “No, not you--that guy, I mean! He lives in my building.”

“Hawkguy?” Natasha asks. She cannot, for the life of her, stop smiling.

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” Clint scolds with a hesitant smile. “I mean, you can obviously say no, but: do you want another cup of coffee? Like, at my place? I’m three blocks from here.”

“I’ve had about three times more coffee than usual tonight; but maybe--” Natasha leans in to kiss him again. “Maybe we can have the coffee in the morning.”

Clint does a respectable job of covering up his disappointment. “Oh, sure, definitely! Yeah, let’s meet for brunch, there’s this place in Red Hook--”

Evidently, she hadn’t made her intentions quite clear. “In _bed,_ Barton,” she clarifies. “At your place. Together.”

“Oh,” says Clint. _“Oh.”_ His smile positively glows in the light of the bodega, and she doesn’t need her last question to know why.

**Author's Note:**

> PS: in my mind, Clint refers Natasha to a teaching job at SHIELD; I just didn't feel like figuring out how to work that in...


End file.
